Why?
Why?
Why are some, through no particular virtue of their own, given so much?
Why are others, through no particular fault of their own, given so little?
And why could the little that these others have be taken away, and given to those who already have too much? That was not consistent with a just world. (Unless - a little voice always reminded him - he was bad and deserved to be punished. No! That idea was unacceptable. He rejected it; he had to reject it.)
The world was unfair. But he could still hate. James Potter. The name had fallen as a seed into the fertile darkness of his child's heart, and it had taken root the way such ideas only could in the immature emotions of the young. His tears watered it, his envy nurtured it, his anger shone fiercely upon it. His hatred grew tall and sent its roots deep into his heart.
Hatred and vengeance were approved. But why?
James Potter knew.
When they had finally gotten bored of him, they let him down. Perhaps it was because their audience had long dispersed. Perhaps it was just not exciting anymore when their target had stopped responding, had just hung quietly there as they exercised their creativity. Who knew!
"That's it - for now, Snivellus," James Potter said, "You'd better stay away from - are you listening? Hey, Sn- Severus. You, uh, you ... alright there?" He uncharacteristically stumbled over his words. James Potter squatted down beside his unresponsive enemy, curled up in a ball on the ground, and shook his shoulder. "Uh...hey?"
It was another's voice that answered him. The same person, yet the voice that emerged from his enemy's throat was another's. It was a child's whisper.
"I'm sorry, Father. Please stop hurting me."
James Potter fell back, a horror in his face. His eyes were riveted to his enemy's blank staring eyes. It was but a heartbeat. A flush of blood returned to the pallid cheeks. Something returned into the black eyes and they returned his stare, now young man at young man. Horror met horror - the horror of realization against the horror of realization of that horror.
"You alright, James? What did he say?" That was Sirius Black.
"No - yes. Yes, let's go. We're done here."
James Potter left with his friends. As they walked off, he turned his head and gazed back as if he wanted to say something. But he did not, and left.
It was good that he did not say anything.
It was good that he left.
Because he would never forgive James Potter for that look.
It was not the House rivalry, not their fights (usually with him the loser, but against four!), not the verbal back-and-forth. No, it was that look he could not bear. He had thought himself master of himself and freed of his past, but a moment of weakness and he was publicly exposed, defenseless, humiliated. He would never forgive.
After that incident, James Potter stopped hunting him for sport. In fact, James Potter stopped picking on anyone else. Except when they met. Then, they would have to fight. To do otherwise would be to acknowledge that James Potter knew. And that Severus Snape knew James Potter knew. That was unacceptable.
But James Potter knew. And he knew James Potter knew. And James Potter knew that. For that, he would never forgive.
Never.